


Aim

by Mother_of_Dragons



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I re-read this like 50 times so have no idea if it's good, ao3 doesn't like my paragraphs :/, mando somehow speaks more than you do, shoutout to Tesco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:40:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23463352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_of_Dragons/pseuds/Mother_of_Dragons
Summary: Mando teaches you how to shoot.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Kudos: 46





	Aim

"Widen your stance" 

You've been at it for what seems like hours - in fact, you're certain that one of the suns of this not quite middle-of-nowhere mid rim planet must have set by now, if the quickly fading light is anything to go by. 

"Mando, don't you think that's enough for today?" You ask, rolling your sore shoulder slightly and cringing at the sweat that you can feel trickling down between your shoulder blades, and the sticky, cloying effect it has on your tunic, the sweat stain no doubt growing the more you're subjected to the unforgiving elements. 

Helmet or no helmet, you can almost feel the disapproving - and borderline judgemental - look he's giving you beneath all of that beautifully crafted beskar. It catches the light of the scuffed durasteel barrel of the outmoded weapon you're holding, all but his view protector glistening as he watches you, head cocked ever so slightly to the left and somehow managing to give off both a lax and "I'm not mad, just disappointed" aura, with his arms crossed like that. You can't help but feel like you're about to be scolded. 

"Finger off the trigger" comes his response, the deep yet tinny modulator swallowing any trace of intonation that would reveal if that was intended as an invitation to take a break or a reproach. 

Taking it as the latter, you resist the urge to roll your eyes and flip the carbine blaster's safety on, careful of its fractured scope as you set it down against a nearby rock.

It's junk really, a salvage from Mando's latest bounty ~~\- luckily, she won't have much use for it where she's going -~~ that he'd practically dumped into your lap (no explanations necessary, apparently) back on Nevarro, 3 fresh pucks on his hip. 

["What's this?"

"A blaster" 

Oh, so he had jokes? You _had_ rolled your eyes at that, thumbs skimming over the scuffs in the supposed blaster's chamber, catching in a deep groove along the side as he slumps into the pilot's seat in front of yours.

You'd turned it over in your hands to see the word scratched, poorly, there in Basic under the Razor Crest's fluorescent lights, trying not to think about what Mando'd look like underneath the helmet - was he grinning, or was it more of a gentle upturn of the lip? Come to think of it, what do his lips look like? Are they scarred? plump? _human?_

"I can see that. What's it for?" The name on the side had read _In'ek,_ presumably the name of the woman you'd been chasing across no-name outer rim planets. 

"Blasting" Mando huffs, back to 1 word answers as he flicks through countless controls, resetting any that the kid had managed to mess with while he'd been gone. 

(Ask dumb questions, get dumb answers)

'Doesn't look like it', you'd thought.

The thing's ancient, practically falling apart, but clearly well loved - maybe even an heirloom?

You're good with a blaster, decent with moving targets, & better with a vibroblade but long-range weapons aren't your strong point, something Mando definitely knows. Besides, your job is to help with the upkeep of the ship, take care of the cute womp rat, that kinda thing. So, you'd resigned the incident down as being one of Mando's quirks, maybe a peace offering for what had happened back on Coruscant, and had left it at that, figuring that he wasn't in the mood to elaborate.]

He doesn't protest when you take a seat in the dirt, helmet lowering to keep his gaze level with yours in a silent staredown, only it's your face that you find staring back at you via the reflection of his shimmering armour, warped and yet still visibly weary. Even underneath all those layers, Mando, seems to be (frustratingly) unaffected by the heat. Either that, or he's amazingly good at hiding it. Unfortunately, as a warm-blooded & essentially glorified nanny accustomed to more moderate climates, the same can't be said for you. It must be pushing 35 degrees and, frankly, you're not sure just how much of this you can take. 

"Here" 

Predictably, the canteen he tosses you with little to no warning almost slips clear out of your grasp, but you manage to catch it at the last second. 

It's still almost full and you hesitate for a moment as you unscrew the cap, thoughts drifting back to last night as you weigh up the pros & cons of drinking straight from the source or tilting the flask to sky it. 

Figuring that he probably doesn't want your saliva all up in his limited supply of liquid mana, you settle for the latter and lift it over your open mouth.

The water is warmer than you'd like and you make a bit of a mess of it, spilling a little before you can adjust your aim, but it still hits the spot, 

providing relief that you hadn't been aware you needed until the first droplet had slipped past your lips. Sighing contentedly, you drink like a man possessed - like Tantalus would if the curse were ever lifted - until you can hear the liquid begin to slosh around in your otherwise empty stomach and know that your thirst has been quenched. 

*

"Up" 

He can't possibly be serious.

You hate him sometimes, plain and simple. Hate how his usually admirable drive to get shit done in one fell swoop can turn into gear-grinding obstinance when it comes to you, regardless of whether you're nearing your limit or not. Maker knows he probably has enough spite, skill and experience to keep him going even beyond all rational thought but, _hell_ , not everyone can have the discipline of a Mandalorian, regardless of how endearing it is for him to expect so much of you. 

"You know, I don't remember signing up for shooting lessons on the hottest day of the cycle" you snark, heaving yourself back up onto your feet even as you say it.

It's one thing to get up & another entirely to stay up, so you stretch as best you can and try to keep the faces you pull to a minimum at the tingling sensation you feel as blood rushes back to your extremities. As much as you hate to give in, the sooner this is over with, the sooner you can get back on board and curl up on the cool, designated spot on the ship's floor you call your bed. 

He doesn't respond, only turns to look back at the make-shift range he'd set up when you'd first arrived.

Most of the targets are the empty tins of caf and other pieces of scrap you'd been saving since two star-systems ago to trade for their worth in credits, a (now unnecessary) practice you'd picked up from your early days in the slums that more than often yielded either chump change, or nothing at all. 

If the slight but still significant increase in your cut of the earnings was anything to go by, Mando'd taken it almost personally the first time he'd stumbled across your little haul - but old habits die hard and you'd learned that "every little helps" from a young age. 

Now, he brings back whatever he can find for you, even has a pouch in his tactical pants dedicated to the smaller items.

As you lift the blaster up to your shoulder and align the scope's crosshairs with the easiest looking target - a kids' lunchbox - it strikes you that he must entertain your antics just to keep you distracted from worrying out of your mind when he's gone for days on end, leaving you behind with the goblin tike. 

He comes up behind you without a word, nudging your feet just a little bit further apart and adjusting your aim at the elbow until he's satisfied, touch lingering for just a second longer than necessary before he shifts back. Up this close, you can hear his breathing crackling through the vocoder, can smell the hints of Fuji apple soap he still insists you buy from the market, despite the less abrasive alternatives. It's a little unnerving having him monitor you, and the pressure alone gets you sweating again as you flick the safety off with an audible _click_ and run your tongue over your top lip, lapping at the smattering of salt that you can taste there. 

You hear a breath be sucked in - this time it's yours - and a moment passes as you factor in the wind before you fire, eyes closing a half-second after your finger depresses the trigger as the recoil hits and you stumble backwards into the Mandalorian, somehow managing to stay standing. 

You hear the blast make contact before you see it and let out a whoop of success when the dust settles and the finger-width hole in the box becomes visible, dead centre between the eyes of the pop-culture figure emblazoned on its side. 

"Congratulations" 

Beneath the helmet, Mando's grin mirrors your own as it sets in that yes, you _did_ just hit your target from yards away and his heart kicks into gear at the palpable sense of accomplishment that he can feel emanating off of you, reminiscent of when you manage to fix up spare parts and haggle the price up for beyond what their worth & he feels his face warm as he thinks of what's best next to say. 

"Now do the rest"


End file.
